You Meant It, You Mean It
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Two-shot. Takes place twenty-four hours after that revealing phone call. Both Sherlock and Molly are hurting, but one simple act of kindness could prove just enough of an opening for the both of them to finally and truly find each other.
1. Chapter 1

As the sun set in London, Molly Hooper entered her flat. She carried one grocery bag in her arms. After shutting the front door and kicking off her shoes, she carried the bag to the kitchen. The few items in the bag she placed on her kitchen counter. She then took a few more items out of her pantry and refrigerator, then lining them up on the counter beside the other items. After that, she took a few bowls, pans, and baking utensils out of various drawers and cupboards.

All of her preparation finished, Molly took her mobile out of her trouser pocket. After she typed out a text message, she looked at it for a long minute. The past twenty-four hours had made her feel so goddamn _tired_ , especially emotionally tired. Looking at the time on her mobile, Molly realized that twenty-four hours had now passed since that horrible phone call. It felt both a lifetime ago and mere minutes ago at the same time.

She had to take a deep breath before she could hit the ' _send_ ' command:

 **Mycroft told me everything. I'm about to bake some gingernuts. You're welcome to have some. Molly**

It wasn't much, but it was all that she could give the man right now. Even though she now understood the entire situation behind that phone call – hell, the whole reason behind Sherlock being the way he was – Molly had been hurt. After all, one can't move as they once did on a broken leg, even when the injury had been caused by an accident.

Molly snorted to herself at this analogy. At least physical ailments had clear timelines and guidelines about healing. Emotional ailments, on the other hand…who knew if they ever truly healed?

Having given all that she could give to the man who was both the love of her life and the bane of her existence, she set aside her phone. She then braided her hair into a single plait down her back, and began the task that she had set herself.

* * *

As she lost herself in the familiar process of baking – something that she'd always enjoyed doing for fun – the stress and strain of the recent past loosened its hold on her somewhat. It was quite therapeutic: the measuring and mixing, the spicy smell of the ginger, the knowledge that the end result would be delicious.

The calm atmosphere that Molly had created for herself suddenly broke as she was placing balls of the dough on the last pan to go into the oven. Her mobile phone had vibrated – quite loudly – on the kitchen counter. It vibrated only once, indicating an incoming text. Reflexively, Molly walked away from the pan and to the other end of her kitchen counter, where her mobile lay. She was able to read the text and who had sent it before her lock screen faded to black:

 **May I come in? SH**

It was safe to say that Molly was completely shocked. She'd had no idea if Sherlock would even reply to her text, and if he did, she'd expect it to be a request to bring the finished biscuits straight to him. But now, he had not only replied to her text and come to her flat, but was asking very politely to come in. Sherlock asking politely for anything? Molly knew that he'd been through a shitload in the past few days – hell, _years_ – but somehow, she'd thought that he would revert to his usual methods as a way of coping, especially since he now knew that she knew the whole story. He'd done so before (or tried to, anyways, like when he came back from the dead).

Again, her mobile vibrated with an incoming text, and she read it:

 **Please? SH**

 _Oh, my goodness,_ thought Molly. _This is serious._ Molly then realized that she could neither reply to his texts nor open her front door: her hands were too sticky from the dough. So, she walked out of her kitchen and towards her front door. "Come in!" she called. Then, she retreated faster than a mouse to her kitchen and her task.

She knew that it was a cowardly action, but Molly had been taken by surprise, and she wasn't sure if her bruised and broken heart could handle whatever Sherlock had come here for. It would be foolish to think that he would come here only for gingernuts that he could easily buy from any store or bakery, or even bribe Mrs. Hudson into baking for him. And since he knew that Mycroft had told her everything that happened, then he could only have one good reason for coming to see her: to discuss _that_ phone call.

And Molly was quite certain that she wasn't anywhere near ready to hear what she was sure he would have to say about it.

As she finished putting the last balls of dough on the last pan, Molly heard her front door open and close. As she wiped off her hands and set the timer, Molly heard footsteps walking through her sitting room and towards the kitchen.

Her heart was now beating fit to burst through her ribcage, her anxiety mounting with each passing second. Still desperate for an excuse to avoid the dreaded conversation, Molly went to her sink. Her hands needed a good washing anyway, now that the messy parts of her bake were finished. Even over the running faucet and her own thorough scrubbing, Molly heard him stepping into the kitchen and towards her with slow, measured steps.

Her hands trembled as she turned off the faucet and dried her hands with a towel, for now his steps had stopped, and she felt him standing right behind her. The towel dropped from her shaking hands when his own right hand came into her view. With infinite gentleness, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. The position of his digits told Molly clearly that he was taking her pulse. For a moment, Molly was baffled, but then she noticed two things:

One, his own hand was shaking, even as it held her wrist. He wasn't measuring her pulse rate - he just wanted to feel it beating.

Two, his knuckles were scraped and bruised, as they surely would be after what he had done to the coffin that had been built for her.

Like a tsunami through her mind, Molly remembered all that Mycroft had told her of the part she had played in the third Holmes sibling's cruel game. As hot tears blurred her vision, Molly lifted her left hand so it would gently cover his. In reaction to this, his left arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her to rest against him.

She closed her eyes, forcing the tears to flow down her cheeks, when she felt him rest his forehead against the back of her head. And it took all of her strength not to sob outright when she felt drops of moisture soak through her hair where his face was pressed.

* * *

For seventeen minutes, they stood like that, neither moving or speaking except to breathe and silently cry (Sherlock's grip around her waist would also tighten ever so slightly if her tears fell onto the hand still holding her wrist).

What finally made them move apart again was the sound of the timer on the oven going off, signaling that the last batch of gingernuts were finished baking. Molly let her hands drop to her sides; Sherlock also let his arms drop, and he stepped back from her so that she could complete her task.

After the last of the gingernuts had been placed on the cooling tray, Molly mumbled, "Help yourself." She still couldn't bring herself to look at him, because she had absolutely no idea what would happen or what she would do when she did. So, she kept her head down when she turned to walk past him and out of the kitchen.

But Sherlock was too quick: he sidestepped in front of her before she could, and gripped her shoulders to prevent her colliding with him. Molly's hands began shaking again, and she resolutely kept her gaze on the third button of Sherlock's shirt.

" _Molly…_ " His deep voice was so soft yet so full of emotion. " _Please…_ "

He was pleading, Molly realized. For what, Molly didn't know, but it certainly wasn't for the gingernuts that were lying out all ready for him to take. Now Molly's whole body began to tremble, and she shut her eyes, causing more tears to fall. She knew that it would take all of her strength to speak instead of cry now.

"Sherlock…I'm not angry with you about what happened. Mycroft told me everything, and I talked to John, too. I know that you weren't trying to hurt me, but to save my life, and you did. There's nothing to forgive, I promise. B-but, I'm not…I can't… I've given all that I can give today because I wanted to give you _something_ after all that you went through. But this is all I can give right now. I'm sorry if it's not enough. I don't know when I can give you more…it will take some time for me to…just… _p-please_ …"

The sobs were taking over, so she screwed her mouth shut as tightly as her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to be a turtle or a conch, to have a shell to retreat into until it was safe to come out. When his hands left her shoulders, Molly wondered if he would leave. But a few seconds later, she felt his hands rest gently on her waist.

Finally, her confusion overpowering her fear, Molly opened her eyes to look at him. But she didn't see him until she lowered her gaze – to find him kneeling on both knees before her.

Molly gasped in reaction to both this _and_ his appearance. The man looked as though he truly had been through hell (and, according to what Mycroft had told her, he had). He looked as though he hadn't slept for days; his curls were greasy and limp; there was stubble on his cheeks and jawline. She'd seen him in similar bad states, like when he'd been using and just after the Fall. But now...those other instances paled in comparisons.

It was his eyes that made the difference. Not only were the whites bloodshot from the tears he had cried into her hair, but his cerulean irises held an absolute hurricane of emotions. The only other time Sherlock had ever looked at her like this was when he had come to her for help before the Fall. And even that time couldn't quite compare to now.

Most importantly, he was talking to her, _imploring_ with her. Not with words, but with those blood-shot, tear-filled, and multi-colored eyes. For both of their sakes, Molly allowed herself to _see_ him, to listen to and understand what he was trying to tell her. And when it clicked, the heavy boulder that had been resting on her heart for the last twenty-four hours crumbled into the finest dust.

She cupped his face with her hands, and breathed what she had rightfully heard him tell her without words:

"You meant it… _you mean it_ …"

Sherlock's shoulders visibly relaxed as his hands tightened on her waist. His gaze didn't leave hers or lose any of their intensity, as though he wanted to make sure she didn't start second-guessing him. But she reassured him a moment later that she wouldn't by kissing him on the forehead. Only then did Sherlock's eyes close and more tears fell down his cheeks.

In the next moment, his arms had wrapped around her middle and her face was pressed against her belly. Molly's fingers ran through his greasy, limp curls, and she kissed his head when she felt a new drop of moisture soak through the fabric of her shirt.

* * *

Sometime later, the silence was broken by the sound of Molly's phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. The both of them jumped a little bit, breaking contact with each other. More to stop that intrusive sound than anything else, Molly hurried to the counter and picked up her phone. Her lock screen said ' **Private Number** ,' but there was no doubt who it was from.

Answering it, Molly said calmly, "Hello, Mycroft."

"Molly, is my brother there?" His usually cold and distant voice was tinged with worry and hope. "He's turned off his mobile."

The pathologist looked at Sherlock, who was slowly standing up, in shock. _Sherlock turned off his mobile before coming inside?_ "Yes, he's here."

"By your invitation?"

"Yes."

A sigh of relief. "Good. He told me that he wouldn't approach you unless you reached out to him first. Will he be staying in your home tonight?"

Still looking at Sherlock – who looked just like a little boy lost on a deserted island – Molly replied without hesitation: "He's welcome to stay here if he wants to."

Upon hearing this, Sherlock stepped towards her, took her hand, and pressed his lips to her fingers.

"Well, then, please tell him that I will pick him up at 10:00 AM tomorrow from your home. Both of us should greet our parents at the train station."

Trepidation and sadness tinged Mycroft's tone of voice, and Molly could certainly understand why. She wouldn't soon forget the image of the man when he'd knocked on her door early that morning. He carried that air of sad and humbled defeat while a government car had driven them around London; he'd told her the whole terrible story while his best forensics team had swept her flat and removed the surveillance equipment that had been hidden there for over a month. She'd never really believed Mycroft to be "the Ice Man" before today, and now she never would.

"I'll tell him, Mycroft," she said as reassuringly as she could.

"Thank you, Molly." And from his tone, he was certainly thanking her for much more than her passing a message along.

Both ended the call, Molly set her phone back on the counter, and she turned to Sherlock. She told him what Mycroft had asked to pass along, and Sherlock nodded in response. He still held her hand between both of his, and he let out the tiniest of gasps when she gently extracted her hand. But he relaxed again when she gently cupped his face, as she had done minutes ago.

"I still have your spare toiletries and a spare set of clothes in my bathroom closet. Why don't you have a shower or a soak in the tub? While you're doing that, I'll make some supper for the two of us to eat before we get to these gingernuts. Ok?"

Sherlock stepped closer to her and pressed his forehead to hers. "Thank you, Molly," he breathed.

A little overwhelmed by two such substantial 'thank-yous' from each Holmes brother, Molly raised her lips and tenderly kissed his scruffy cheek. After giving him a reassuring smile, she turned him around and gently pushed him out of the kitchen. He obeyed, and a minute later she heard the washroom door open and shut.

When she heard the sound of the shower going, Molly turned to the task of making a simple, warm and delicious meal for two.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock came out of the bathroom and rejoined Molly. She was not in the kitchen but in her sitting room. In front of her sofa, Molly had set up two TV-trays that each held a plate of roasted chicken and vegetables. The smell was truly comforting and mouth-watering.

Sherlock looked much better than he had when he'd arrived. He now wore the gray t-shirt and blue-plaid pajama trousers that he'd left here years ago. His curls were damp, and his face was cleanly-shaven. When Molly motioned for him to join her on the sofa with a warm smile, he gladly accepted the invitation.

Both of them ate in companionable silence, while a marathon of "The Great British Baking Show" played on the telly. When both supper plates were bare, Sherlock took them and the glasses to the kitchen before Molly could. She smiled to herself as he did the washing up, her heart growing warm. When he returned, he carried the tin that Molly had put all of the gingernuts in before making supper. They each ate a couple as they continued to watch telly.

Eventually, when an episode ended, Molly turned off the telly and turned to Sherlock. Taking his hand in hers, she said, "You're more than welcome to have the bedroom to yourself. I can sleep here if you'd prefer –"

" _No!_ " Sherlock's response was immediate and visceral. She saw fear come into his eyes again. His grip on her hand was tight as he said in a choked voice, "I'd…if you would…I would rather not be…alone tonight…anymore, really…"

She gave him an understanding smile and nodded. "Me neither." She caressed his cheek with her free hand, and then she stood up, pulling him up with her. "Come on, then."

Still holding his hand, Molly led Sherlock to her bedroom. After leading him to the side of the bed that he would occupy, she said, "I'm going to use the washroom. Get settled in and I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sherlock responded by kissing her forehead and reluctantly letting go of her hand. With a reassuring smile, Molly grabbed her pajamas (which were haphazardly folded on the end of the bed) and left the bedroom.

Molly didn't linger in the loo: she brushed her teeth, washed her face, brushed out her hair from its single plait, and changed into her pajamas (purple plaid bottoms and a bright yellow tank top). She yawned more than once during her routine; her exhaustion from recent events was clearly catching up with her. The fact that she didn't have to work tomorrow, and the fact that she wouldn't be sleeping alone tonight, were great comforts to her.

When she returned to the bedroom, Molly found Sherlock lying under the covers on his side of the bed (she knew that she would call it _his_ side from now on). He lay on his back rather stiffly, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Upon hearing her close the bedroom door, his eyes found her, and his body seemed to relax. Molly blushed under his intense gaze as she walked to the bed.

Not knowing what he would want her to do, she slipped into bed and mirrored his position by lying on her back. Once she did, Sherlock turned his head towards her, and she did the same. The expression in his eyes was so vulnerable that her heart ached. Her hand automatically reached out and caressed his cheek.

"Molly, can I…" he began, not quite sure what to say. "Can we…"

"Do you want to be closer?" asked Molly gently.

He nodded, leaning into her touch.

"Let's try this, then," said Molly before she turned onto her side so that her back was to Sherlock. She reached behind her and, thankfully, he understood what she was silently proposing. Once his body was cozily spooning hers, she interlaced their finger under the covers and softly asked, "How are you feeling?"

She felt Sherlock's warm breath on her neck as he responded. "I want to sleep…but I don't want to dream."

Molly squeezed his hand and said, "I wish I could keep your nightmares away."

His lips brushed her neck in a gentle kiss, and Molly felt both a hot jolt and the urge to cry. "I know you do, Molly…I feel so safe and warm with you…like I'm home…"

Now a tear _did_ fall from Molly's eye at his sleepy words. After kissing his fingers, she said, "I'm glad of that, Sherlock. And if you do have nightmares tonight, I'll be right here for whatever you need. You can even wake me up if you need me; I promise you I don't mind, Sherlock."

She felt him take a deep, shuddering breath as he held her closer to him. His lips brushed against her ear as he breathed, "Thank you, my Molly..."

Kissing his fingers again, Molly's only reply was, "Always, my Sherlock" before she shut her eyes.

Sleep took them both soon after that, their hearts beating in sync to each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Very late that night, or very early the next morning, Molly woke up. It wasn't a sound that woke her, but the sensation of her body being moved with infinite gentleness. When she felt a pair of strong arms scoop her up like a baby, she let out a sleepy groan.

"Shh, it's just me, Molly," murmured a deep and very familiar voice as he cradled her to his chest. Relaxing, Molly instinctively snuggled against his warmth, breathing in his natural scent deeply. It wasn't until she felt that he was shaking did she open her eyes. It was very dark in the bedroom, but she didn't need to see him to know why he had woken her and was holding her now.

Slowly, she reached her arms up and wrapped them around his neck. Sherlock's hold around her tightened and he pressed his face against her own neck. When she felt the moisture of tears on her skin, she murmured, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," said Sherlock firmly, his voice muffled against her neck. "I just…need you close."

In response, Molly tightened her embrace around his neck slightly. The trembling of his body was increasing, and his face was hot against her neck. Molly's intuition told her exactly what was going on and what Sherlock needed to do right now.

Carefully, Molly freed herself from his hold, and changed her position close to him by straddling his lap. Under any other circumstances, this would have been a sexual act. This time, it was to ensure that Sherlock could get her as close as he wanted her to be. She could barely see his face in the darkness, but she cupped it gently in her hands. Feeling the tears there, Molly murmured as reassuringly as she could:

"It's ok, Sherlock. Just let go. Let it out. You're safe with me, I promise."

This was exactly the trigger that Sherlock needed, for a moment later, he started to sobs. They were so violent and loud, it was as if the sobs were being torn from his throat and chest by force. Molly didn't flinch or shy away; she pressed herself to him and held him as tightly as she could. He, in turn, held onto Molly like a lifesaver in a turbulent ocean as he finally allowed himself to cry without restraint for the first time in his adult life.

Neither knew or cared how long this lasted. They only knew that they fell back asleep after it was over, with Sherlock nestled safely in Molly's arms.

* * *

Working full-time eventually puts one's body on a natural clock in terms of when they go to sleep and when they wake up. One can't stay up late or sleep in late as they were able to when they were younger. So, when Molly woke up the next morning, despite the exhausting day and night she'd had, it wasn't very late in the morning.

 _8:34_ was the time on her bedside clock when she had opened her eyes and cleared them of sleep. She remembered Mycroft telling her on the phone yesterday that he could come to collect Sherlock to meet their parents at 10:00. Molly turned her head to look at Sherlock, who was still fast asleep. He lay close to her, turned towards her, with an arm slung over her middle.

He looked so innocent and peaceful now that Molly couldn't bear to wake him up just yet. She decided that she would wait until she had freshened up and had breakfast ready for the both of them. So, after kissing the tip of his nose very lightly, Molly carefully rolled out of bed. He didn't wake, thankfully, so she grabbed some clothes from her dresser and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later found Molly at her dining table. She was dressed in a pair of blue jeans, and a white blouse embroidered with dark-purple thread along the edges. Her long hair was down, side-parted, and kept away from her face with a plain barrette. As she was spooning scrambled eggs and bacon onto two plates, she heard familiar footsteps coming from the direction of the bedroom and washroom. She smiled to herself, both glad and disappointed that she wouldn't have to wake him up.

Looking up, Molly saw Sherlock. He was dressed in the clothes that he'd worn yesterday, but he looked twenty times better than he had looked when he last wore it. And the way that he was looking at her made every atom of her body warm. She gave him a little smile and said, "Good morning," in a quiet voice.

Sherlock returned her smile, replied with his own "Good morning," and sat down at the table. Molly joined him, and they tucked into their breakfast in companionable silence. Every so often, Sherlock would reach out and touch Molly: her hand, her wrist, her neck, her cheek, her knee, her thigh. It was as if he was reassuring himself that she was there, taking care of him, loving him. And she would always respond by covering his hand, squeezing his hand, and giving him her own gentle touches.

When they had both finished, Molly picked up the plates and took them into the kitchen. As she washed them and then her hands, she felt Sherlock come to stand behind her. As he wrapped his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder, he asked, "Molly…did you mean it…when you told Mycroft that I was welcome to stay for as long as I needed? Baker Street may not be completely restored for some time…"

"Yes, Sherlock," she replied sincerely. "I meant it. If you would really like to stay here until your home is ready again, then you're welcome to."

He turned his face and kissed her neck once, twice, three times. Molly felt her cheeks burn and her heart flutter at such an intimate display of affection – the kind that she had never ever expected Sherlock to show her. When he felt her whole body shudder, he ceased and turned her around to face him.

"You cool and soothe my mind just being near me, Molly," he said in awe. "How do you do that?"

His words warming her heart, Molly could only smile and shrug. "I'm just me, Sherlock."

"Then promise me that you'll never stop."

"I promise. After all, I don't know how to be anything else."

Sherlock gave her a warm smile, and pressed his forehead to hers. They stood there like that, foreheads pressed together and arms around each other for quite some time. Then, something in Sherlock's trouser pocket began to vibrate. He sighed, leant back from Molly, and took out his mobile.

"Mycroft," he said, reading the text that he had just received. "He's on his way."

Molly nodded and stepped back from him. "I plan on going to Bart's for a few hours today, just to catch up on some paperwork. So, if I'm not here when you come back, just text me and I'll wrap up whatever I'm doing."

"Thank you," said Sherlock, taking her hands in his as a somber look came over his face. "I already know that I will need you after this…disclosure to my parents is completed."

Her heart going out to him, Molly embraced him tightly, and he held her just as tightly back as if to soak up her strength. Sensing this, Molly murmured: "It's going to be alright, Sherlock."

She felt him take a shuddering breath. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I know you, Sherlock. I know how strong you are, and how big your heart is. Because you love your family, and they love you. And because, now that the truth can be told, everything can at least be settled right."

Sherlock held her tighter to him for a moment, and then he let her go. She caressed his cheek before gently pushing him towards her front door. With one last lingering look, Sherlock left her flat and she was alone again.

But this time, her mind was at peace and her heart was full.

* * *

Molly wouldn't hear from Sherlock for a couple of hours. She occupied her time by going to Bart's and finally catching up on that stack of paperwork covering her desk. Her lunch was a sandwich and tea that she had picked up from the cafeteria. When she left Bart's nearly five hours later, she was tired but feeling very proud of herself.

It was just after she had returned to her flat that she got a text from Sherlock:

 **My parents would really like to meet you. May I bring them over for tea? SH**

Molly's eyes widened as she read the message. _Goodness,_ she thought dazedly. _In the past twenty-four hours, Sherlock and I have realized our requited love for each other, and now he wants me to meet his parents!_

Her heart beginning to pound nervously, Molly texted back:

 **Oh, of course, if they really want to. I just came home. Molly**

She cringed after she'd sent it, wishing that she had just said 'yes' without the hesitant embellishment. It's not that she didn't want to meet Sherlock's parents; it was just that everything was happening so fast and unexpectedly. Plus, there was the normal – and powerful – fear that the parents of the person you loved wouldn't approve of you. That they would think that they were a bit to plain, too odd, too morbid for their child.

Her mobile vibrated with a new text from Sherlock:

 **We will be there in fifteen minutes. Stop worrying. They will adore you, my Molly. SH**

Molly had to smile at this. That man certainly knew her well. Sufficiently – but not completely – calmed, Molly freshened up in the loo and then went to the kitchen to put the kettle on and prepare the tea things.

* * *

Right on time, fifteen minutes later, Molly's doorbell rang. Taking a deep breath, Molly went to her front door and opened it. There stood Sherlock and an older couple behind him. He gave her a reassuring smile before she stepped aside. "Please come in," she said, smiling.

Once the door was closed after them, the woman who could only be Sherlock's mother took both of her hands with her own. Her eyes – Sherlock's eyes – were shining with emotion. "Oh, Dr. Hooper, we're so happy to finally meet you!"

"Please, call me Molly," the pathologist said, slightly overwhelmed by the sincerity in Mrs. Holmes' voice and gaze. "And it's lovely to meet you, as well."

"I do hope that this isn't an imposition," said Mr. Holmes, standing at his wife's side with such a kind face. "This was quite at the last minute, after all."

"Oh, it's no trouble, I promise," Molly responded, and she meant it.

Looking at the two of them, she could tell by the weariness and traces of sadness in their eyes that they had certainly not had an easy day. Molly's heart ached for them, not even daring to fathom what they had been through and the hurricane of emotions that they had been put through today. She had to blink back tears from her eyes just thinking about it.

Thankfully, the moment was broken by the sound of the kettle boiling. So, Molly ushered them further into her flat and to her table. "Please sit down, and I'll get everything ready –"

"No need, Molly," Sherlock called from the kitchen. He had lifted the kettle off the stove-top. "I'll get everything prepared, you three sit and chat – that is the expression, isn't it?"

Molly gave a little laugh, smiling warmly at Sherlock's generous gesture. As she sat down at her table, she heard Mrs. Holmes murmur something to her husband, and Mr. Holmes' response:

" _You see? I told you she is perfect for him!"_

" _I never doubted you for a moment, my dear."_

* * *

Throughout the simple but lovely tea time (the remaining gingernuts were consumed along with the tea), Molly felt as though she were under a spotlight in the best possible way. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes wanted to know everything about her, both so earnest and sincere that Molly never felt truly uncomfortable. She had the feeling that the both of them were doing their best to distract their minds from the day they'd had, so she gladly accepted and answered all of their questions. Sherlock said the least, sitting beside her in supportive and adoring silence. He seemed at peace, and that relieved Molly to no end.

With each minute that passed, Molly came to love Sherlock's parents more and more. Both were intelligent, insightful, good listeners, and clearly devoted to each other. She dearly hoped that she would be able to see more of them in the future, especially considering the paramount shift in her relationship with Sherlock. When they exchanged numbers, addresses, and e-mail accounts, Molly vowed to make sure that she would.

When it came time for them to leave – Sherlock's parents had a train to catch back home, and Sherlock was escorting them to the station – Molly walked the three Holmes's to the door. Before she could open the door, Mrs. Holmes had enveloped her in a tight, warm hug.

"You are the best thing that could ever happen to my boy," she murmured softly. "You've saved him in every possible way. And if he gives you any cheek, you just let me know."

Molly laughed through the tears that had welled in her eyes, hugging her back and nodding. After their hug ended, Mr. Holmes gave her a warm smile and kissed her forehead. "We'll see each other soon, my dear."

Again, Molly nodded, words failing to break through her emotion.

Sherlock opened her front door, and waved his parents through it. Then he turned to Molly with a tender expression on his face. "After I see them off, I'm going to get some more clothes and necessaries for myself, and then I'll come right back," he said.

"Okay," she said, her voice cracking a bit from the butterflies that suddenly started pounding in her stomach. That man _certainly_ had a way of looking at her.

He smiled at her, squeezed her hand, and then followed his parents out.

* * *

Left alone in her flat, Molly felt the exhaustion that had been piling up from everything: the paperwork at Bart's, the stress of the phone call, the aftermath with Sherlock. So, after she had cleaned up the tea things, Molly decided to indulge herself a little bit.

After clearing away the tea things, Molly went into her bedroom. She stripped of her clothes, threw them in the laundry hamper by the door, and put on her lilac bathrobe. She then went into her washroom to draw a hot bath for herself. As the water filled the tub, Molly put her hair up in a messy bun atop her head.

She took her time in the tub, indulging in a long soak in the steaming water. It was one of the simple pleasures that she always enjoyed, and that she would indulge herself as often as she was able to. Aside from just lying in the water, Molly took her time washing her skin with her favorite soap and shaving where she was due for shaving.

By the time she was willing to get out of the tub, she was warm and even more drowsy than she had been before. So, Molly walked back into her bedroom and let her hair fall loose again. She curled up on her side of the bed, and was asleep within seconds of closing her eyes.

* * *

Molly awoke to something gentle stroking her hair and something soft brushing her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Sherlock leaning over her, lifting his head after having just kissed her cheek, seated beside her on the bed. He had that tender expression on his face again as one hand stroked her hair. Molly smiled sleepily at him, raising a hand to cup his cheek.

Hunger mixed with the tenderness in Sherlock's expression, and he began to lower his head, his eyes asking permission. In response, Molly moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, welcoming his intent. In the next moment, their lips met for the first, wonderful time.

The couple took their time, savoring the sensations, the closeness, the intimacy. Their first kisses were tender, innocent, with little smiles to each other in between. But gradually, the kisses became hungrier and _much_ less innocent. Molly felt her skin tingling with arousal, and the area between her legs getting hotter and wetter.

What finally broke the heated kisses was Sherlock, who had realized that his fingers had wandered inside of Molly's robe and were nearly resting on her breast. He looked at her again as if to ask if this was alright. And Molly, who had no conflict raging in her mind or heart, moved his hand under her robe so that it cupped her breast. Then she said three words:

" _If you're sure._ "

Sherlock's look became absolutely passionate as he leaned down to brush his lips with hers again.

" _More than anything._ "

Soon, neither could tell where one ended and the other began.

* * *

It was some time – well after dark – until the two new lovers left the bedroom to have a very late supper. Sherlock kept Molly on his lap while they ate off the same large plate, not shy at all about where his free hand and his lips went in between bites. Molly had no objections to this whatsoever; being with Sherlock so intimately was something she had only dreamt of for so long.

The fact that he wore nothing but his dark-purple boxer shorts was just a wonderful bonus.

As she washed the plate and glasses at the sink, Sherlock stood behind her, his arms around her waist and his lips on her neck. Molly giggled, finally dropping the dishes in the sink in surrender. "Sherlock, I have to get at least a little sleep tonight. I have to work tomorrow."

Sherlock groaned, resting his forehead on her shoulder. "Can't you take the day off?"

Molly sighed, leaning back against him in his embrace. "I wish I could…but I only have a few days off left this year, and I want to save them for the holidays."

Sadness had crept into her voice that went deeper than wishing she had more vacation time. Sensing this, Sherlock lifted his head and turned her around in his arms. "You used quite a lot of it up after Mary died, didn't you?"

Molly blinked hard, bit her lip, and nodded. "John was so…devastated…and he needed help…and Rosie's my goddaughter…I couldn't just not…"

Sherlock cut off her sad words with his warm lips. "You are so strong," he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers. "And so brave."

Molly shyly hid her face on his shoulder. "I try to be."

He held her for a minute before he led her back into the bedroom, shutting off the lights as he went. Once in the warm bedroom, Sherlock stripped Molly of her robe, himself of his boxers, and tucked her into bed along with him. Holding her close, he asked, "Molly…why were you not having a good day…before that phone call?"

Molly sighed, knowing that he would have asked this eventually. "It was just a bad day…I get them from time to time…ever since my father died. He was all I had growing up, and after he was gone…there was a time when I truly believed that I was all alone in the world. It got better over time, but I still sometimes have bad days like that…especially after Mary…"

For a moment, Sherlock said and did nothing. Then, very gently, he rolled Molly onto her back so that he hovered above her.

"Molly, I want to ensure that you never have a day like that again. I know that I've caused my fair share of them in the past. But I need your help. I've never done any of this before, and I don't want to let you down. I want to be for you what you are and have always been to me."

"And what am I and have always been to you?" asked Molly.

"My rock. My bolt-hole. My right-hand. Someone that I can always turn to for anything I need, be it assistance in the lab or the most crucial role in saving my life. And now, you are my home and my heart. You are the person I could come to and be more vulnerable with than I've ever been with anybody before. You took care of me and still loved me, even though it took me so long to stop denying my heart. I want to be all of that to you, too. Will you help me get there, my Molly?"

Molly smiled a beatific smile. "Oh, my Sherlock…of course I will! You're already closer than you believe."

They shared a deep and passionate kiss before getting lost in each other again. Molly certainly didn't mind; she'd worked plenty of shifts on little to no sleep, anyway.

 **The End**


End file.
